


Driftwood

by Bullfinch



Series: After Kirkwall [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4354916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen finds the Iron Bull. Hawke loses yet more pieces of himself. Fenris struggles to hold on to what's left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: No sexual content in this story.  
> Title's a reference to No Salvation, if you remember back that far.

Despite how idyllic life at Skyhold seems after their long months on the run, Fenris finds himself restless trapped inside the great stone walls, and Hawke chafed by the attention (even with years gone since the Chantry explosion, the Champion of Kirkwall still draws starry eyes and incites plenty of swooning—although Fenris suspects the latter is only partly due to his deeds; Hawke cuts a striking figure).

So they leave, heading for Tevinter again to right some wrongs. There are plenty enough there—remnants of Venatori under a less extreme guise; small parties of Qunari appearing again, after a brief respite, to snatch up fleeing refugees; and, as always, slavers. Their departure does run into a short delay, but after Fenris pries Varric out of Hawke’s bear-hug of an embrace, they’re off once more.

They don’t make it very far.

——

While the comforts of Skyhold were somewhat overwhelming, the lure of well-supplied Inquisition camps is hard to resist, and that’s where they spend their nights. Hawke still goes out hunting, offering his haul as repayment for the hospitality. Fenris’s skills in building fires or staying awake to keep watch are redundant here, so he’s left with nothing to do except relax.

It’s on the second morning since leaving the Frostbacks when a soldier hands them a message. “Just arrived by bird,” she tells them.

Hawke takes it with an enormous yawn, unrolling the scrap of paper. Fenris rests his chin on Hawke’s shoulder, peering at the words. His reading remains rocky, but he likes to practice. Still, Hawke reads it aloud. “Found him. Too dangerous to send soldiers. You two have experience. Sorry to ask it of you, but I’d appreciate the help. Meet at Soren’s Falls. -C.”

Fenris frowns, trying to make sense of it. Then he figures it out.

Cullen’s found the Iron Bull.

Fenris draws his arms a little tighter around Hawke’s waist, praying the news doesn’t set Hawke’s anger off. They’ve just had some time to themselves, and things have been good, the nagging aftereffects of the re-education fading some behind the years of familiarity with each other. But that anger is dangerous—to Hawke’s enemies, obviously, but just as much so to Hawke himself—

A snort. “ ‘Experience?’ Does he mean experience fighting Qunari? D’you think we should tell him  _you’re_  the one who does all the work?”

Fenris relaxes, kisses Hawke’s shoulder. It is true. Hawke’s daggers are like sewing needles against enormous foes like the Qunari, and his poisons are utterly useless—Qunari physiology is too unpredictable. Normally he sits behind cover and helps out with a few well-placed arrows while Fenris hacks them apart. “Where is this place?” Fenris points to the message. “Soren’s Falls?”

“Between Highever and West Hill, maybe a day and a half up the coast. There’s a town there, but I’m guessing he means the falls themselves. Fewer people around to see us.” Hawke stands and stretches with another enormous yawn. “Oh, Maker, I need some breakfast.”

——

Hawke’s good cheer doesn’t last the morning.

He grows serious as they ride, his face set as stone. Fenris twists the reins around his fingers absently, worried, trying to figure out how to fix this. Impossible. The anger has sucked him down like quicksand. Every time it comes he sinks a little deeper, and Fenris is balanced there on the edge, reaching for a hand that only gets further and further away.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have told Hawke what Bull and that human did to him. But to hold it back would have felt dishonest. And anyway, it was a relief to speak of it, to drag it under the light rather than keep it down in the humid dark of the sea cave, where time slips him by, the rest of the world abandons him, where even his own thoughts sleep as if dead…

“Fenris?”

He looks up. “Hm?”

Hawke’s frowning in contemplation. “D’you think if I told everyone it was really Cullen who struck the killing blow on Meredith, they’d all go hound him for stories instead of me?”

Fenris lets out a startled laugh. Perhaps Hawke’s not so far gone after all. “It’s possible, although I doubt he’d thank you for it.”

“True. And he does have plenty to deal with already.” Hawke shoots him a sly grin. “What if I told them it was you?”

Dread wells in Fenris’s gut. “Please don’t do that.”

“Are you sure? Think of all the admirers you’d have.”

“I don’t want admirers!”

“Well, neither do I, but I’ve got them anyway!”

“It’s all right, Hawke.” Fenris adopts a soothing tone. “They’re far behind us. There’s no one here waving their copy of  _The Champion of Kirkwall_  at you for an autograph.”

Hawke slumps in the saddle. “But as soon as I go back to civilization, they’ll start again. I suppose I’ll just have to stay on the run forever.”

“Hm.” Fenris considers. “You may have to do it alone. The food at Skyhold is excellent.”

Hawke lets out a stricken gasp. “Fenris, you’d abandon me for  _fine cuisine?”_

Fenris shrugs at him. “I must admit, it is a tempting option.”

Hawke tugs the reins, and his horse drifts a little closer. “Orlesian cuisine can’t fuck you so well you forget your own name.”

Fenris has no rebuttal, and he nods in concession. “You have a point.”

That night Fenris doesn’t forget his own name. But he has to take a moment to remember it.

——

They reach the falls in the late morning. From the fact that the landmark has its own name, Fenris was expecting some majestic cascade of water a hundred feet high, the spray glittering in the bright sun like a shower of broken crystal.

The falls are, in fact, closer to twenty feet in height, and the flow burbles sedately down a wall of water-darkened stone into a small pond at the base, the edges of which are home to a half-dozen pockets of stagnant gray-green foam. A few rays of sun do manage to struggle through the thick canopy of oak leaves and set the pool to sparkling. All in all, it’s actually quite nice.

There's a young couple there, across the river, a boy and a girl eating a picnic lunch. But no sign of Cullen. Hawke seems unconcerned, and walks the horses forward so they can drink. "They're probably camped somewhere less conspicuous and come out to check now and then. That’s what I’d do.”

Fenris rubs his horse's neck and settles in to wait.

Indeed, it's not long before an Inquisition soldier ambles down the path and tips his helmet to the two of them. "Afternoon."

With the mantle gone and a few well-placed smears of dirt on his face, Cullen could be any old recruit. Hawke shakes his hand. "Afternoon."

Cullen grins. "Good to see you both. Here, let’s go through the woods. No need to show our faces to anyone if we don’t have to.”

He leads them across the stream. Fenris follows with Hawke, their horses in tow.

"Thank you both for coming," Cullen says. “I’m sorry for dragging you back into this, but we couldn’t let word of Bull’s location get back to the Inquisitor. The Qunari delegation denied any knowledge of blood magic among their higher-ups, but there’s no way to tell whether or not they were lying. And when we mentioned that she just—didn’t care.” He shakes his head, his face gone grim. “Anything to uphold the alliance, even if it’s with a bunch of maleficarum. So we were afraid if she got wind that there were still witnesses, she’d hunt them down and silence them.”

“And you mean to—take them alive? For questioning?” Hawke seems caught off-balance. Fenris realizes he’d thought this was an assassination.

Cullen nods. “Yes.”

“Is that wise, Commander?” Fenris isn’t one for politics, but the folly here seems obvious. “To undermine the Inquisitor? She’s one of the most powerful people in Thedas.”

“I won’t speak against her publicly. I’ll even let her take credit for uncovering the truth. Without unity, the Inquisition is…dangerous. But if they really have adopted blood magic, we  _need to know.”_

Fenris doesn’t pry further. No doubt Cullen’s given it enough thought on his own.

“How’d you find them?” Hawke asks.

"A mage went missing from Highever," Cullen replies. "A young woman, a new healer. We narrowed the search from there. One of Leliana's agents spotted a man matching your description of that viddathari." He glances back at Fenris. “Leliana knows the situation, and she and I are of the same mind. We told the Inquisitor we suspected templar abuses of power, and that I wanted to take care of it personally. We tracked them to Barden—it’s another town over. The agent found their camp. She didn't want to risk getting close, but she heard a human girl and at least three Qunari."

"The mage and some extra muscle they picked up along the way," Hawke mutters. "Well, the sad truth is I'm near useless against Qunari…even if the three of us strike fast and catch them off guard, we'll be hard pressed to take them all before at least one of them can run off to tattle.”

"Actually...there are four of us."

"Oh? Who's the last?"

Cullen hesitates. "I know you don't like him—“

Hawke groans. "Not the bloody Tevinter."

"He knows Bull better than any of us! I couldn't afford to leave him."

"The commander is right, Hawke," Fenris interjects. "And the mage  _has_  helped us."

Hawke watches him for a second, on the edge of saying something. But he looks ahead again, keeping his silence. Fenris knows what he was going to say. 

_He used you._

It's true. An exquisitely unpleasant experience—not the using itself, that was as close to euphoria as Fenris has ever come—but the aftermath, that sense of being completely exposed, that horrible need to be touched. But the mage apologized after, even though he wasn't at fault. That did mean something. And he saved Hawke's life, after all.

"He'll slow them down," Cullen says. "I think we can pull it off."

They break out onto the road, where Dorian, also dressed in Inquisition gear, sits on the floor of a wagon, the doors flung open on either side of him. "Hello! Delighted you could make it."

Hawke doesn't reply, and Fenris isn't one for greetings anyway, so Dorian's attempt at camaraderie is met with a stretched silence. He sags. “Can't say I didn't try."

“Are we ready to move?” Hawke doesn’t wait for an answer, mounting his horse.

Dorian hops out of the wagon and slams the doors shut, going forward to join Cullen on the seat.

The journey is free of conversation for a time. Fenris has half a mind to make the effort—it would alleviate the knife’s-edge awkwardness, and anyway, he likes talking with Cullen—but the venomous enmity radiating from Hawke like a miasma quashes his desire to speak before it can come to anything. If Dorian were to join in—hardly an  _if_ , talking seems to the man as essential an act as breathing—no doubt Hawke would pounce on him like a mountain cat on an unlucky vole. Fenris isn’t particularly fond of the Tevinter either, but he would like to see Dorian at least arrive in Barden uninjured, so he keeps his peace.

But Dorian doesn’t.

“I just can’t believe Bull’s this far gone. Let me talk to him, all right?”

Fenris is riding on the side closest to Dorian, with Hawke opposite, and he thinks of saying something to head this off, but it appears to be a bit late for that.

“He would  _never_  choose to participate in something like this,” Dorian continues. “He hates any kind of magic that gets inside someone’s head. Maybe he was—I don’t know, lied to, or—“

“I don’t see that it matters,” Hawke cuts in. His voice drips with a practiced mixture of confidence and condescension—coming from him, potent enough to shut the Tevinter up utterly. “Perhaps you wouldn’t be so intent on fabricating some innocence for him if it had been you down there in the caves, chained up and drugged with your most deeply held emotions turned against you—“

“ _Yes_ , I understand!” Dorian’s recovered some by now, and he volleys back, although it sounds more like cover fire than an answering salvo. “I’m not excusing what he did—he’s Qunari, he follows orders. But he wasn’t like this before he lost his Chargers—I don’t think  _this_  is him at all! He’s Tal-Vashoth at heart, and even if he has been trying to prove himself to his masters, if we prove to him that the orders he’s been following are corrupt—“

“Yes, my empathy for him is profound,” Hawke remarks drily. “Our foremost priority should certainly be to show him how very wrong his actions have been, a fact that must somehow have escaped his notice the first time around, but that’s a perfectly innocent mistake, I’m sure—“

Dorian lets out a sound of frustration. “You are— _hopeless!”_

“And you are  _blind,”_ Hawke hisses.

_“Enough!”_

Fenris realizes his whole body has gone tense, but at Cullen’s shout he relaxes. It seems this might not end in a bloodbath after all.

“We take Bull alive and bring him back to Skyhold. Any further course of action will be decided there,” Cullen growls. “The viddathari should also be captured. He may have valuable information.”

Dorian’s jaw is tight, his fists clenched. Hawke, on the other hand, looks perfectly calm. But Fenris sees the anger flowing steady, slow enough so it might seem inconsequential, something easily turned aside. But Fenris knows the mass that lurks behind it, of all the accumulated injustices that Hawke’s witnessed, received, and internalized since they left Kirkwall behind. That kind of momentum can’t be broken easily. Or at all.

He prays again to the empty air that Hawke makes it through this without any further damage.

It’s midafternoon when they rattle across a wooden bridge and Cullen tells them, “All right, time to get off the road.”

The trees aren’t so dense here, and they get the wagon into the forest and away from prying eyes. Cullen starts tying the horses. “The agent said to follow the stream, perhaps a mile up from the bridge.”

Hawke takes his bow and quiver. “I’ll go have a look.”

Cullen watches him retreat into the forest. “He’s not going to do anything stupid, is he?”

“You heard him, he’s useless against Qunari,” Fenris replies. “No, this will take all of us, and he knows that.”

“All right.” Cullen heaves a tired sigh. “Dorian, do you really think Bull can be talked down?”

“ _Yes._ You must believe me, I  _know_  him. Give me a chance. There’ll be no need for Leliana to…extract information from him.” Dorian’s rubbing one of the horses’ necks—a gesture Fenris recognizes as something he himself does when he’s anxious. It’s nice to feel as though he’s got someone else on his side, even if that someone is an animal.

A moment of silence. Thankfully much less strained than the silence on their journey here. “Hawke’s changed since he left Kirkwall, hasn’t he?” Cullen remarks.

Fenris lets out a humorless laugh, but it fades fast. “Yes. Quite a bit.”

Hawke returns after some time, looking none the worse for wear. No battles with the Qunari, then. Good. Fenris didn’t think he would engage in any, but Hawke’s not as easy to predict recently. “The Iron Bull, that human viddathari, and three Qunari I don’t recognize. And the healer. She’s working on Bull, but he’s still got a big chunk missing out of him.” Hawke nods at Fenris. “Whatever you did, it stuck. He won’t be in the fight.”

“So that’s three Qunari and a human.” Cullen grips his sword hilt. “I don’t think we can risk transporting all of them. We can kill the three we don’t know, but the human and Bull  _must_  be taken alive. And make sure to protect the girl.”

Fenris nods, rolling his shoulders, the greatsword heavy on his back. Nervousness worries at the edges of his mind like a child pulling a thread from the hem of their shirt, exposing the fray. He’s spent weeks fighting Qunari. It’s not the fighting that concerns him.

It’s Hawke.

“I found a good approach. Should keep us fairly hidden.” Hawke gestures. “Follow me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris finds himself hanging back.

He’s aware he’s supposed to be on the front line, with Cullen. But now that they’re so close, little murmurs of fear have begun to dog him. What if the re-education worked after all? If the conditioning is still there? He can imagine it, Bull calling out the opening phrases of the Qun, Fenris picking it up, the blunt, heavy syllables falling out of his mouth as he turns his blade on his allies, on  _Hawke—_

No. That won’t happen. He escaped, he recovered, he’s fine. In fact, he should be relishing this opportunity, to take revenge on those who’ve done him harm.

But vengeance has walked at his side too long, and through the years Fenris has become aware of its frailties, how under the lustrous surface lies nothing but empty space choked with cobwebs and dust. He will not do this for vengeance. He will do it to stop the Qunari from hurting anyone else.

A wind blows through the trees, the leaves rustling overhead. Good. The noise may cover their approach. Hawke raises a hand, and Fenris stops. They’re coming to a rise, and Hawke points over the top of it. That must be where the camp is. He looks back. Fenris nods, as does Cullen. Dorian is still for a moment, gazing blackly at the top of the rise. Then he, too, gives a curt nod.

Hawke unships his bow and steps aside as Fenris dashes forward.

A clearing appears below him. The Iron Bull lies at the far edge, with the two humans beside him. And three well-armored karasaad on the near side. They’ve heard the crackle of leaves, and they’re already standing. Their weapons are drawn by the time Fenris reaches them. Grouped and ready. Not an ideal situation, but hopefully Cullen will arrive to—

—block a mighty axe-swing, the blade clanging loud off his shield. Fenris faces the other two, parrying a blow, pushing them both back with a wide slash.

Then he hears the shout.

 _“Blood magic, Bull!”_ Dorian advances across the clearing, missiles of crackling ice magic flying through the air. “How could you be a part of that?  _Blood magic?!”_

“Dorian, what the fuck are you— _shit_ —talking about?!“

Fenris gets in a pommel-strike to his opponent’s wrist. The karasaad’s hand springs open, his greataxe yawing out awkwardly, and Fenris steps forward to take advantage—only to arch away as the second Qunari lashes out with the haft of his weapon. A quick dodge saves Fenris’s mouth from being bashed in, but the first karasaad’s got both hands on his greataxe again.

 _“Don’t lie to me!”_  A flare of blue, and a gust of cool air—Dorian must have cast some sort of spell. “I saw it with my own eyes, we all did!” More missiles of ice piercing the air.

Fenris puts up a block—stupid, he’s at an enormous disadvantage here in size. So he shoves forward, but it’s too late, the karasaad’s already bearing down, the wooden haft of his greataxe threatening to bend the metal of Fenris’s sword. Fenris strains simply to stay upright—until his opponent shouts and buckles, an arrow sticking out of his knee. Hawke’s work. Fenris tilts his blade in the direction of the injury, and the greataxe slides off of it. Free of encumbrance, Fenris jams his weapon forward edge-first, slipping under the karasaad’s visor and splitting his neck. Blood sprays over Fenris’s hands. One taken care of.

“Fuck’s sake, I’m not lying, Dorian! And would you  _stop fucking throwing those things at me?!”_

Cullen’s engaging both of the others now. Fenris is about to help when he spots a slight figure dashing out from behind a tree, heading straight for Dorian. The viddathari. Damn it all. “Watch your back!” Fenris shouts.

The mage spins, throwing out a spell, but the trajectory is messy and it does little more than force Lek to tack around it. Then Hawke’s coming down off the rise, daggers in hand. Good. Fenris will leave the mage’s protection to Hawke. Right now Cullen needs help.

Fenris slips around behind the Qunari, and they split apart so as not to be bracketed. The tactic gives Cullen some much-needed space—his shield is sporting a couple of new dents, and the arm underneath is likely bruised at the very least. Even as he gets his feet back under him, one of the karasaad charges—only to nearly topple over as his feet stop moving, frozen to the ground by a thick layer of ice. Cullen lunges forward with a powerful thrust that strikes true, sliding between the plates of his opponent’s armor. The last Qunari whirls to face Dorian. Fenris won’t let that opportunity slip by, and he swings his sword out in a low chop, slicing through the backs of the karasaad’s knees. The karasaad crashes to the ground, and Fenris finishes it, stabbing him at the joint of his neck and shoulder.

“ _The viddathari!”_

Hawke’s voice. Fenris whirls, clearing his blade with a yank, searching the clearing frantically. Lek is streaking up the rise, and Fenris sprints forward, knowing he’s not fast enough—

Lek cries out, ice closing over his legs, as the mage once again proves himself invaluable. Fenris climbs the rise and, as the ice disappears, grabs the back of Lek’s armor and forces him to his knees, letting the greatsword rest on his shoulder, the edge just brushing his neck. “Drop the knives. Now.”

Lek hesitates, then, as the sharp metal threatens to break his skin, complies.

It’s over.

Fenris scans below him. Cullen’s limping up the slope, clutching his side. “Maker. Remind me to avoid fighting Qunari in the future.”

“It gets easier with practice,” Fenris replies, still scanning. Dorian appears unhurt—good; Lek never reached him. Hawke is bending his knee, squeezing it, kicking at the ground experimentally. Must have gotten it injured in the fight. In his free hand he still holds a dagger.

Then he straightens and heads for Bull and the girl.

Bull’s lying at the far side of the clearing, propped up on one elbow. Hard to see from here, but his other arm is lain out oddly, and it looks like there’s something wrong with his upper body. Hawke approaches, stride steady, clutching the dagger.

The events unfold in Fenris’s mind with crystalline clarity. He can even picture Hawke’s face, displaying not the forced calm of cold rage, only a bland indifference. Fenris lurches forward. “Stop him, he’ll kill the Qunari!”

Dorian starts, then spins around, lashing out with his staff. A thick wall of ice erupts from the grass, shielding Bull.

Fenris curses. This is going to go badly. Cullen’s already climbing up the rise as best he can with that limp, and he grabs hold of Lek, freeing Fenris to race down into the clearing—

Hawke turns to Dorian, unhurried, composed as ever. “Will you defend him?” He flips the dagger in his hand, holding it blade-first as if preparing to throw it. Dorian stands frozen, caught in an impossible decision. If he sustains the ice wall, Hawke will kill him and go after Bull. If he dismisses the wall, Hawke also kills Bull, except slightly sooner.

 _“Hawke!”_  Fenris shouts.

Hawke whips around, raising his arm to cock it back—

Fenris flinches so hard he almost loses his balance, staggering. Fear blooms bright in his mind, of Hawke shouting, grabbing him, hurting him—

Hawke drops his arm, the dagger falling to the grass. “Fenris—no, I didn’t mean—“

Fenris, irritated, banishes the fear. It isn’t his, the Qunari created it, he reminds himself, _they_  put it there. “We agreed to take him alive!” He strides across the clearing. “You can’t just kill him!”

Hawke’s face folds in disbelief. “He deserves it! All those things he did to you, and you want to  _protect_  him?”

“I’m protecting  _you.”_  Fenris stops, breathing hard, the fatigue of the battle only now starting to make itself known. “This anger—it’s dangerous.  _Please_ , Hawke. Don’t kill him.” He grasps Hawke’s hand. Can’t let this rage take the man he loves away from him.

For a moment there’s silence but for the rustle of wind through trees, the trills of birds that have come out to search for food in the gathering dusk. Branches bend around them, bright leaves fluttering.

Then Hawke nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Fenris relaxes but doesn’t let go of Hawke’s hand. There’s a sigh from behind him, and the ice wall vanishes. Bull is still there, as is the girl, who’s watching them all with faint hope. Dorian approaches her. “It’s all right, we’re here to help. What’s your name?”

She lets out a long breath. “I’m Ingrid. Sorry I couldn’t be of more use, I’m not very good with combat.”

“Oh, no need to apologize.” Dorian flashes her a brilliant smile. “My own combat prowess is quite breathtaking, as you may have seen—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Bull grumbles. “So if we’re done with the fighting and the not-killing-me—Dorian, what’s all this blood magic bullshit you were going on about?”

Dorian winces. “Language, Bull, the girl is young—“

Ingrid folds her arms. “Am not, I’m eighteen years old.”

“Well, in that case,” Dorian says. “It is most assuredly not bullshit. Those re-educators you were defending in the cave? They set a saarebas on Hawke. To twist his mind with blood magic.”

Bull sputters out a laugh. “You’re fucking with me. Come on, Dorian, Qunari don’t use that shit.”

Dorian remains unmoved. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Bull watches him, an incredulous smile lingering on his face. But it quickly begins to fade. He calls out, “Lek, is that true?”

“Of course it’s not!” The reply somewhat choked, as Cullen’s blade is jammed up tight against his throat.

“Bull, you  _know_  me.” Dorian steps forward. “Will you take his word over mine?”

“Uh, yeah.” Bull half-grins. “He’s not a damned Vint.  _He_ follows the Qun.”

“Is that an absolute guarantor?” Dorian shoots back. “Did you not think it suspicious that a group of re-educators included a saarebas? Or that they wouldn’t tell you exactly what was so important that you couldn’t let it be interrupted, when they sent you out to get in our way? Think, Bull, you’re smarter than this!”

Bull’s grown serious again. Fenris sneaks a glance at Hawke. The anger’s still flowing, although it doesn’t look as if it’s going to breach its levees anytime soon, which is an improvement from only moments ago.

“Lek,” Bull calls. “You got anything to say about that?”

There’s no answer for a moment. Then: “Come on, hissrad, do you really think it matters what tools we use?”

Bull’s jaw tightens.

“We break minds! Done it with drugs for a long, long time!” Lek’s voice is stronger now. “Blood magic is the same fucking thing, just with a way better rate of success! Don’t sit on your high horse.” He slumps against Cullen’s grip. “You were doing the same thing the saarebas did. Only slower.”

Bull’s eyes slip down to the grass at Dorian’s feet. “Huh. Who woulda thought.” He shakes his head. “So, what? You want me to come in and tell you what I know? Betray my comrades?”

“That’s—approximately the idea, yes.”

Bull makes no indication that he’s heard. Then Hawke steps forward, although he leaves his hand in Fenris’s grasp. “You follow the Qun supposedly to keep your true natures in check, isn’t that right? A strict set of laws to hold you to discipline? So what happens if those laws go rotten? How many Qunari go rotten with them? How much damage could that do?”

Bull blinks in surprise, then tips his head back and laughs. “Fuck me, they were right about you! You are good. Yeah, I’ll come quietly. May never see the light of day again, but if someone’s fucking with the Qun, that needs to be stopped.”

“Oh, thank the Maker.” Dorian comes forward and kneels at Bull’s side. “ _Fasta vass,_  this looks awful. So much flesh that…isn’t there. Did they— _cauterize—_ ”

“It  _is_  awful,” Ingrid affirms. “I don’t know why they took me, I’ve only been doing this a few years. It was all I could do to keep the arm alive.”

“Keep the arm alive? Why—ah. It’s not attached. Oh, except by this little bit here, I see. Well, I may be able to tack it back on…”

“Are you certain that’s wise?” Hawke cuts in. “Surely it’s less risky to leave him as he is, as long as he’s not going to keel over and die halfway to Skyhold.”

“Oh, I’m definitely not gonna pull anything.” Bull nods at Fenris. “Long as you have this guy along. He scares the shit out of me.”

Fenris offers a gracious smile. It’s nice to be feared.

——

_“Ow.”_

“You’re welcome,” Dorian mutters.

Bull shifts against the wall of the wagon, peering down at his destroyed shoulder. “You sure you’re putting things back where they’re supposed to be? Because if kind of feels like they’re where they’re not supposed to be.”

“I have done this before, you know,” Dorian snaps, a pure white glow emanating from his hands.

“I’m amazed you’re still alive.” Cullen’s driving the wagon, with Ingrid beside him, but the window at the front is open. “The cave—there was blood everywhere.”

“Yeah, well, I’m Qunari. We got a lot of blood to lose.”

Fenris is nearest the doors, his legs stretched out, Lek asleep beside him. Hawke, finding at last an opportunity to use his poisons again, administered a liberal dose of the Captor’s Hand before they set off.

Dorian shakes his head. “Why, Bull?”

“Why what? Why’d I take these two?” He nods across the wagon. “You know that, Vint. Orders.”

“Why  _you,_ Bull, why’d you agree to that?! I thought you didn’t like the whole ’stuff the Qun down everybody’s throats’ idea—“

“Doesn’t matter. If it wasn’t me, woulda been someone else. And anyway, like I said. Orders.”

“Why’d they want us?” Hawke asks.

“You’re both good at what you do,” Bull tells him. “ _You’d_  be the best hissrad we’ve seen in ages, and the elf has those tattoos. Plus, y’know, you were killing Qunari. And that had to stop.”

Dorian glances over his shoulder. “You were  _what?”_

Hawke nods. “It’s true. They were kidnapping refugees for re-education. Not a bad strategy—taking potential resources from Tevinter and bolstering their own forces at the same time. Of course, it’s also abominable. So Fenris and I were getting in their way.”

“By slaughtering us,” Bull growls.

Hawke shrugs. “If that’s what it took. And it generally did. Qunari aren’t much for retreating.”

Bull grunts.

Dorian bends again to his task, his magic flickering. “Were you really all right with it? With—drugging people, twisting their minds? Turning their own memories against them?”

“The intelligence said they’d both do well under the Qun.  _Ow.”_  Bull flinches, then settles. “Just had to break that bond first, separate ‘em from each other. Like ripping out an arrowhead to let the wound heal. Do it fast, let it scar, you’ll be just fine.”

“That’s not quite true,” Hawke says mildly. “A scar is never as strong as the skin that was there before.”

Bull rolls his eyes. “It was a metaphor, okay? Give me a damn break.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dorian interjects. “I know you, Bull, can you really tell me you were all right with it? That you felt no doubt, no guilt? Can you really say that, in all honesty?”

“ _Maraas shokra,_ ” Bull rumbles out.

Fenris translates automatically. “ ‘There is nothing to struggle against.’ ”

Dorian doesn’t say anything for a moment, his magic sending shadows flickering through the wagon. When he speaks again, it’s so soft Fenris feels as there’s some private conversation here that he’s intruding upon, caught, voyeur-like, on the edges. “Bull, I watched you change after you lost the Chargers. You  _are_  a good liar, but I could see what you were doing—pushing me away. Trying to make me think it was just a fling, just a physical indulgence like every other relationship I’ve had. Because Qunari don’t have sex for love, of course. And you tried to pin it on  _me_. Because if  _you_  broke it off, I might continue to pursue you, but if I felt the flaw was in myself, then there was no danger of that.

“But it was too late, Bull. You had already shown me that I— _we_ —were more than just a few energetic romps fueled by a sense of adventure and too much wine. I knew I was worth more than a quick fuck—and ironically, you were the one who’d proven that to me. So when you tried to make me believe otherwise, I could tell it was a lie. What do you think Bull?” He looks up. “Can you tell me that  _you_  believed it? Are you  _that_  good a liar?”

Bull laughs suddenly, his guffawing so loud Fenris thinks it shakes the walls of the wagon.  _“Fuck_ , Dorian! Have you been hanging on to that this whole time?  _Fuck_  me. Let me set you straight on a couple of things. First of all: Qunari don’t have sex for love. I’m Qunari. If I did feel that strongly about you, trust me, I would not have been spending four nights a week fucking open that tight Vint ass of yours. Second, I’m Ben-Hassrath. I manipulate people. Sometimes that means making them think you’re into them because they suck your cock better that way. I stopped later because you got clingy and it was weird, not because of the Chargers.” He chuckles to himself. “Ohhh, fuck. That’s hilarious. I mean, not for you, obviously, but that’s hilarious.”

Fenris heaves a quiet sigh, feeling a pang of sympathy for the Tevinter. Hawke, meanwhile, has fixed Bull with an oddly intense gaze.

“Fine,” Dorian hisses. “Good to know you’ve always been a soulless drone.”

Bull grins, then looks forward, gazing out the small window at the purple sky. After a moment, he says,  _“Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit.”_

Fenris knows that too, though he doesn’t bother translating.  _The tide rises, the tide falls._ There’s another clause that comes after— _aban aqun_ , ‘but the sea is changeless.’ Yet Bull doesn’t finish the sentence.

After that outburst, no one speaks for a while. Fenris shuts his eyes, feels the wagon rumbling beneath him, listens to the rattle of the wheels. Hopefully they’ll find some civilization and stop soon—the jostling isn’t very comfortable. Later, he catches a few more words, a muted snatch of Qunlat from the front of the wagon.  _“Meraad astaarit helok.”_ Fenris knows what that means, although it’s not part of the Qun.

_The tide rises again._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The next (maybe last, maybe not) chapter might be a while. My outline for it has gotten thrown out and rewritten 3+ times since I started writing this story. It pains me when my outline changes mid-story. Anyways, apologies in advance.

Hawke sits in the half-dark, smoothing the soft rose-gray spines of his quill.

They got back to Skyhold late. Lek was taken straight to Leliana, while Bull was locked up in the dungeons.  _Take a left, the cell at the end of that long hallway._  Two guards on him.  _We’re not supposed to talk to him. Since he’s a spy and all that._  Hawke climbed back up the stairs and returned to their room. Fenris was tired—he’d been riding all day—and was already crawling into bed. Hawke promised to join him soon. A lie that came out of him as naturally as breathing. He is, after all, an excellent liar.

As is Bull. Hawke wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t been watching. The lie itself was smooth, the forethought hidden, the damaging parts without any special emphasis, left to stand on their own. But Hawke saw the decision in Bull’s face, in the middle of Dorian’s earnest speech, how Bull furrowed away his own thoughtfulness in favor of a responsive amusement.

That was the first time Hawke actually sympathized with the Tevinter. Lying is a cruel act, outside the realm of deserving. But a Qunari spy who used an Inquisition party as cover for a kidnapping? Bull will be locked up for the rest of his life. Or put to death, depending on the Inquisitor’s decision. And the relationship would certainly end then, if it hadn’t in the wagon. Lying is probably less cruel than being forced to witness a lover’s execution.

So Bull hurt Dorian as a lesser of two evils. Hawke can understand that. He’s done the same to Fenris, several times. Handed him, unknowing, to Danarius as part of an operation to take down Kirkwall’s underground slavers. Left him in that blasted mountain on Emirius so Hawke could get away to come up with an escape plan. Battered him bloody when the red lyrium had taken him.

The decisions were never very hard. And once the decision was made, the acts themselves were…easy. No inner turmoil, no lancing of guilt. Afterwards, yes, but speaking with Danarius was like speaking to any other well-dressed merchant used to putting on airs. And in the ring under Emirius, or in the tower at Skyhold splitting Fenris’s face open with some well-placed elbows—no different than fighting a stranger, except Hawke knew the stranger’s tactics and how to counter each of them.

Easy,  _easy._  It shouldn’t have been easy.

And now there’s the anger.

Fenris is sleeping, one marked arm folded on top of the covers. His black-dyed hair splays across the pillow. It’s getting long.  _I should cut it tomorrow_ , Hawke thinks to himself.

Tomorrow.

Hawke thinks back to that moment in the clearing, when he was ready to kill the Qunari. Set on it. The anger bore him forward like a rain-swollen river. This was something that had to be done. It was  _right._  And if the Tevinter was going to defend the Qunari, then the Tevinter might have to die too. An unfortunate consequence of his own choices.

And then someone had shouted Hawke’s name, and he’d whipped around, ready to kill, only to see Fenris flinch, face breaking open in terror. That was enough to dam up the anger, the momentum slamming hard against the auspice of guilt.

But Hawke has felt the trickling down the other side, growing into a steady flow like what they saw at Soren’s Falls, the rocks dyed dark by the water.

It’s not under his control anymore, if it ever was. Fenris was right in the clearing.  _“This anger…it’s dangerous.”_  What if Hawke turns it on Fenris someday? He’s hurt Fenris in the past—the tooth-and-nail fight in the tower reverberating in his mind, the grappling, their blood mixing on the floor—what if it takes him over, and he can’t stop it this time? What if Fenris is the one who pays for it? Fenris, who doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t deserve any of this?

Hurting him has been easy. It shouldn’t be easy. Why is it easy?

Hawke twirls the quill absently. One more time. He’ll hurt Fenris to help him, as he’s done before.

But only one more time.

The letter is hard. First because he hasn’t the faintest idea what to write—what could possibly make this better?—and second because he hasn’t actually written anything in quite a while, and his penmanship is terrible. But he makes an effort to steady it. Fenris’s reading is still improving, and bad handwriting will only make the letter more difficult to understand. At last Hawke finishes what he meant to say. He starts to put down a final line, then scratches it out. But after a moment he includes it anyway. Can’t bring himself to leave it off.

Then he folds the sheet of parchment and stands it up on the desk. There. Everything is ready.

Almost.

Hawke kneels by the bed and grasps Fenris’s shoulder.

“Hm?” Fenris rolls onto his back, rubbing his eyes.

“Just me.” Hawke leans down and kisses him.

“Mm.” He reaches up to stroke Hawke’s hair. “Come to bed.”

“I will soon, I promise.” Another lie. “I’m just going to get us some water. Sorry for waking you.”

“It’s all right.” A sleepy sigh. “I love you.”

Hawke gazes down at Fenris for a moment, caught there. Fenris is beautiful, has always been, his green eyes sparkling in the moonlight like a rushing stream.

But it’s time to go. “I love you too.” Hawke kisses him once more, and stands.

——

The halls are close to deserted this late at night, though there are a few people up and about. Hawke’s wearing a tired expression, a fatigued posture to deflect conversation. Still, he eyes each person who crosses his path and reflexively prepares to drive them off should it come to that— _that man’s bright-eyed even at this hour but he’s unranked and his uniform shabby, being a haughty ass should turn him away; that woman looks exhausted but she’s still carrying linens, probably deferent to get stuck with this shift, an apologetic refusal should do it for her; that man’s a noble, not used to being brushed off, a few scandalous political opinions might do the trick, though._  Gather information. Optimize strategy to achieve the most desirable outcome.

Easy.

But these aren’t battlefields, or thefts, or breakout attempts. These are  _people._  Yet that’s still his first response, to pick them apart, decide how best to manipulate them. Not with Fenris, of course—but how long will it be? How long before Hawke starts manipulating him too?

He never has to deploy any of his plans, to assume any of the masks he’s tailored to those who pass him by. A small blessing. There’s a dark momentum bearing him forward, and he’s not sure it can be slowed for anything.

The dungeon door appears in front of him like an offer made in appeasement.

A couple of bored guards at the bottom of the stairs, and the cluster of cells, nearly full—the Inquisitor has been busy. Hawke turns left, as he did this evening when they brought the Qunari here. Down the long, twisting hallway that burrows into the mountain rock, flickering torches creating pools of orange light that Hawke avoids out of instinct and some sense that this is how it should be, that he belongs to the shadows. The cluster of cells falls away behind him. This is Skyhold’s solitary confinement. The hissrad is dangerous, a manipulator. Best not to put him near a group of resentful prisoners ready to jump at the first opportunity to retaliate.

The wooden door at the end is solid, only a small, barred window near the top granting access with the world outside. A pair of guards, a man and a woman, lounge to either side, but they straighten at Hawke’s approach. The woman’s mouth falls open. “Maker take me, it’s—it’s the Champion of Kirkwall!”

Hawke allows an amused half-smile. There’s his angle. “Yes, well, couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d come to check on the prisoner I brought in earlier.”  _I brought in._  Overplaying his own role, but they don’t need to know that.

“Oh, shit. Kenneth.” The woman smacks her partner’s arm. “It’s him.” Kenneth is young, a flutter of nervousness, as is the woman, both blinded by Hawke’s fame. Hawke adjusts his posture a little—hands on his hips, cocking one leg out, tilting his head. Confident, but approachable. His size works for him here, too—helps a little bit with the shock and awe. “Nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

“Clematis. And that’s Kenneth.” She jabs her thumb at him. “Listen, Kenneth, go run and get that bottle of honey wine I was saving for end of shift.” A faintly hysterical grin. “The  _Champion of Kirkwall!”_

“I—right!” Kenneth jogs off down the hallway.

Hawke watches him go. That’s convenient. He’ll only have to take out one of them. “So, how’s the Qunari been?” He nods at the cell.

“Oh, quiet,” Clematis says. “Had a healer in earlier for a while. He seemed tired after that, dropped right off.” The nervous grin hasn’t left her face, and she babbles a bit. “We were warned he might try and talk to us, since he’s, you know, a spy, and he might twist our heads all around, make us betray the Inquisition or some such, and that we shouldn’t say anything to him, not even to shut up, but he hardly spoke a word, just went right to sleep—“

Hawke turns his gaze to the little window. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Clematis doing the same. As expected.

“—so it’s all been quiet, me and Kenneth here just trying not to nod off ourselves, don’t know how I got stuck with such a boring—“

She doesn’t see his hand sneaking up behind her to grab the collar of her uniform, and if she sees his fist coming at her jaw she doesn’t have time to react. Her head snaps to the side, and she crumples into Hawke’s arms.

He needs to work fast. He lets her down gently, slips the keys from her belt (nice not to have to pick a lock for once). The  _click_  sounds deafening in the thick underground silence, and he hopes the hissrad won’t wake up—stupid, if the conversation a second ago didn’t wake him, the lock certainly won’t. Hawke slips a dagger from its sheath at his waist and pushes the door open, torchlight flooding into the cell.

The empty cell.

Hawke freezes, his stomach twisting, his whole body going cold. There’s no one here. That woman was lying to him. Why couldn’t he see it? Because—Void take him, it was  _obvious_ , she was a nervous wreck. And he just assumed she was starstruck. His own fame biting him in the ass yet again.

So why isn’t the hissrad in this damned cell? Because he’s been moved. Because Cullen, sly  _bastard_ , anticipated someone would come for him, and moved him in secret in the middle of the night. Probably thought the Inquisitor might make an attempt on his life. Instead, it was Hawke, but the result is the same.

Fuck. The boy. Kenneth.  _Run and get that bottle of honey wine._ Go tell someone an assassin’s shown up, rather. Shit. Hawke turns and sprints down the hallway. By the time he makes it through the deserted tunnel, he still hasn’t found the boy, so he slows his pace before he returns to the block of cells, taking in slow, deep breaths to hide his exertion. The two guards there look bored as ever, and their demeanors don’t change when Hawke appears. Not trusted enough to be in on the plan, then. Playing against the Inquisitor is a dangerous game, and Cullen kept his hand close. Hawke passes them by. Where would Kenneth go first? The gate guards, to prevent escape. Shit. Hawke takes the stairs three at a time, drawing up in his head possible routes to the courtyard. He knows which route Kenneth will take. But there’s a better one.

Hawke races through the corridors. His boots are of high quality, Inquisition-made, and they’re near-soundless on the stone. He rounds a corner, pushing off the wall, and yanks open the first door on his left, dashing into the kitchens.

The breakfast shift has just started to arrive, yawning chefs tying their aprons around their waists and getting to work. Not ideal, but not a problem. As he runs, Hawke categorizes obstacles, deciding which to swerve around, which to leap over, and which to use. The process is automatic, leaving his mind free to turn over what’s just happened. He was outplayed. He, Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, master manipulator, thief, fugitive, and all-around sneak, was outplayed. And the hissrad will live.

Hawke vaults a lumpy sack of yesterday’s bread, clambers onto a table. Odd that, after such a catastrophic failure, his anger’s not barreling through him like he’s barreling through these kitchens right now. Odd that instead he feels relieved. He went over it a thousand times in his head this evening.  _The hissrad is clever, the hissrad has friends. The longer he’s imprisoned, the more chance he’ll have to escape. Lek is in Leliana’s hands, out of reach, but the hissrad I can get to. The hissrad I can kill._

He was, of course, aware of the other reason for his assassination attempt. Fenris, emerged from the sea-cave, afraid of everything, angry at himself, ashamed for breaking under the drugs and the whispers, ashamed for being afraid. Fenris, who for years was collared with shame, chained with it, fed it and clothed in it, trained in it. Hawke had promised him,  _never again._   _You never have to be ashamed of anything ever again._

The hissrad and his viddathari dismembered that promise.

Yet even now, even (a woman screaming as Hawke’s boot sends her cutting board spinning onto the floor) as the memory rises into his mind, of Fenris trembling against him, whispering apologies—still Hawke feels relieved.

The exit, at last. Hawke wrenches the door open and starts running. Even with the shortcut, he doubts he came out ahead of the boy. A left turn—he anticipates the corner, his boots sliding not even an inch, their soles clinging to the stone—and there, at the end of the corridor, a young man in Inquisition uniform. He’s going at a quick jog, will be out of sight in a second. Hawke draws a throwing knife from his belt. Just a leg wound. Just to slow the boy down. He cocks his arm back—

—and hesitates.

That’s all it takes. Kenneth disappears around the corner.

Hawke curses himself and starts running again. They’re almost outside, and the open courtyard is a much riskier environment than these closed hallways. He darts around a tired young woman and turns—there’s the door, Kenneth grabbing the handle—

Hawke throws the knife.

Kenneth lets out a strangled squeak, flattening himself against the wall, staring at the blade embedded in the wood of the door not six inches from where his head just was. “Don’t move, and don’t scream,” Hawke growls. “Or the next one goes in your neck.”

Kenneth’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. Shit. May have overdone it. Hawke relents a little as he approaches. “Just do as I say and you’ll be fine. I won’t hurt you unless you do something I don’t like.”

Kenneth gives a jerky nod. “What—what do you—“

“Give me your helm and tabard.”

“Right!” He hands over his helm and starts to strip the tabard off, panicking a little when it gets caught on his armor.

Hawke just waits. Any hurrying-on will only make this take longer. But then he has the tabard in hand, and he nods at the boy. “Kenneth. Do me a favor and apologize to Commander Cullen for me, would you?”

“Y—yes, ser!”

Good enough. “Now close your eyes.”

As soon as his eyes are shut Hawke delivers a quick jab to the jaw that makes him go limp against the wall. Just as easy as Clematis was. Hawke catches him so he doesn’t knock his head on the floor, then straightens, donning the helmet and tabard—which, though too big on Kenneth, is still too small on Hawke. Still, it’s far better than nothing. He tugs his throwing knife out of the door and steps outside. Safe, but likely not for long. Someone’s going to find the boy sooner or later, even if it is the middle of the night.

He sprints across the courtyard for the stables. A two-man patrol stalks across the grass. Hawke ignores them, and they don’t stop him. Uniforms. They’ll do the trick every time.

He skids to a stop, breathing hard. The stable guard raises her eyebrow at him. “State your name and business.”

Hawke expected this, knows the protocol, just as he knows damn near everything else about this place. He spent his first day at Skyhold memorizing the layout, his second figuring out the hierarchy, the organization, the division of labor. The third noting where the Inquisition had allies, and where it had enemies. All part of the need for control. To be able to turn any situation to his advantage. Knives and shadows are all well and good, but sometimes the best tool is a dazzling smile, or a few familiar words. And he has a thousand tools at his disposal.

Gather information. Optimize strategy to achieve the most desirable outcome.

Easy.

Hawke nods at the woman. “Private Kenneth Carver, ser. Message for Crestwood. It’s urgent.” He pats his belt, as if indicating some folded missive there. The lie, as always, comes out smoothly, the act so ingrained in him now it’s easier even than telling the truth, takes less time to come up with the words—

“Right, then.” She writes on her clipboard. “Go ahead.”

There are a half-dozen horses tied at the stone wall, saddlebags stocked with supplies, readied for messengers that can’t afford to be delayed. Hawke picks the biggest one—he is a lot to carry, after all—and mounts up, coaxing it into a gallop immediately. The gate guards have already noticed him, and the enormous gate shudders, chains creaking as it starts to ascend. He pulls up before it, waiting, his horse dancing over the stone path. The gate rises and rises. This is it. Fenris still sleeping in their room, curled up under the covers, waiting for something that’s happened a thousand times before.  _“Come to bed,”_  he asked. And Hawke told him,  _“Soon.”_  But it won’t be soon. Won’t be at all. A hundred yards behind him, Hawke hears a shout of alarm. He’ll never see Fenris again.

The gate stops rising as a soldier dashes out from the keep into the courtyard, yelling a warning. His cover’s blown. Hawke spurs his horse forward, pressing himself down on its back. It ducks its head, just scraping through the low space. The metal point at the bottom edge of the grate slices Hawke’s tabard, but his armor holds.

The last time has already passed him by. Did he say enough? Will Fenris know? Will that letter, meager as it is, be a measure of comfort or just a twist of the dagger? Will he find happiness in the years to come, or has Hawke ruined that too? In Hawke’s mind Fenris is gazing at him again, sleepy green eyes bright in the moonlight, full of love. Love that Hawke has just cast away from himself with only a few words, a few lies, a quick blow or two, although it feels more like he’s ripped off one of his own limbs and left it lying on the mountain pass behind him.

This is not easy. This is the hardest thing he has ever done. The loss is agony. He wraps the reins around his palms and pulls them so tight they cut into him, splitting the skin, blood trickling down his wrists. His horse gallops down the path, the wind ripping tears from his eyes as it whips past him.

_“I love you.”_

Never again.

Never again.

——

There’s a knock at the door.

Fenris rolls over. “Hm? What is it?”

“There’s been—an incident, ser,” someone calls through the door. “Commander Cullen wants you to go to the chapel. Says he’ll send someone to meet you there.”

“I understand. Thank you.” He sits up, rubbing his eyes. The other half of the bed is empty. More likely than not Hawke is already gone to help fix whatever happened. Or maybe he’s a part of it. Fenris half-smiles. Hawke does tend to attract ‘incidents.’ His record in Kirkwall was truly astonishing.

The sky is still dark, although the very first glimmers of dawn have begun to well at the edges of it. Fenris stands, yawning, and catches sight of something on the desk, in the light of the candle that Hawke never put out, the wick now little more than a stub. It’s a piece of paper, folded in half. Fenris picks it up and recognizes his name scrawled across the back. So he opens it.

Hawke’s writing, cramped and ugly as always. But it’s legible, at least, unlike those loopy scripts the Orlesians use. Fenris heaves a sigh, squinting down at the parade of letters, assembling them into something that makes sense.

_Fenris,_

_By the time you read this, I’ll be out of reach. I’m going to kill the Iron Bull. You tried to stop me yesterday, but it can’t be stopped. You were right. This anger is dangerous. I don’t have any control over it. I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’m sorry. If I stay I’m afraid I’ll end up turning it on you. I know you would tell me there’s no way I would hurt you. But I have already, too many times._

_I never much talked about this, because being honest isn’t the sort of thing I’m very good at. But in Kirkwall, after I’d lost Carver, Bethany, and my mother, I felt completely empty. Like I was nothing. Like I was made of air. But you were there, and you reminded me what it was like to_ be _, to go forward, to live a real life again. I needed you more than I ever told you. I have repaid you poorly._

_Please forget me. Find someone better. Someone who deserves you. Being with me has brought you so much pain and misery._

_I will always love you with everything I have, but I cannot hurt you any longer._

_Hawke_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The conclusion, longer than I’d envisioned it, but I hope it won’t come off as sprawling. Features Aveline for thematic/arc reasons, not because I will take any excuse to write about her, really, totally, I promise. Thank you all for reading!
> 
> (On a more structural note, I appear to be physically incapable of putting prepositions in where they’re supposed to be, so if you find a few of those missing, it’s completely my fault and I’m sorry)

Fenris reads the letter. Reads it again, and again, waiting for it to say something different.

_Please forget me. Please forget me._

_I’m going to kill the Iron Bull._

_I don’t know what’s happened to me. I will always love you._

_I’m sorry._

His hands ball into fists, and he punches the wooden desk so hard it tilts up and nearly topples over. Then he realizes what he’s done, and his fingers spring open, but it’s too late. Half the letter is crumpled. Frantically he smooths it, his thumb pressing out the wrinkles.

The muffled clatter of bootsteps outside his door. Right. Incident. Chapel. Someone to meet him.

Fenris folds the letter with care and gets dressed.

Skyhold isn’t quite in chaos, but there are certainly more people awake at this hour than he’d expect, and most of them look harried. He does manage to pull a young woman aside and ask directions to the gardens. It’s not far.

The chapel is deserted, but a few fat candles still burn, casting yellow light over the wreaths of dried flowers lain at Andraste’s feet. Fenris stares at them. Hawke knew the names of flowers, all kinds, pointed them out when the two of them walked the gardens together.  _Dragoon lilies._ Fenris murmurs the words, gazing at the shriveled blooms.  _And lavender._

The door bursts open.

“Fenris.” Cullen strides in. “I…have some bad news.”

“I know,” Fenris says dully. “Hawke killed the Iron Bull.”

“Actually, he didn’t.”

Fenris looks up, brow knotting.

“He tried,” Cullen says. “But late in the night I had Bull moved to a different location—I thought the Inquisitor might make an attempt on his life. Turns out Hawke fell into the trap instead. Almost did, anyway. He escaped Skyhold before we could catch him. Er—how did you know he was going after Bull?”

Fenris gives Cullen the letter.

The commander scans it while Fenris goes over it again in his his head.  _I know you would tell me there’s no way I would hurt you._ Because there  _isn’t_  any way.  _But I have already, too many times._ Ridiculous. Why does he think that? What made him so afraid of it? Fenris’s gaze slides over the dried flowers.  _Verbena. Rose thrift. Marigolds._

He figures it out.

“I—I’m sorry.” Cullen hands the letter back.

Fenris nods. “We need to find him. I need your help.”

Cullen hesitates. “Hawke—tried to assassinate an Inquisition prisoner. I’m not sure you want the Inquisition to look—“

“He’s going to get himself killed!”

There it is, at last, the anger, the first thing that’s burned through this inertial haze. Cullen is taken aback for a second, but he shakes his head. “You two evaded the Chantry for  _months_ , and now Hawke only has to hide himself. Do you really think we’ll be able to track him down? Especially if he’s going back to Tevinter.”

Which is almost certainly his destination. Hawke, like Fenris, grows restless when not fighting. The commander has a good point. If Hawke wants to disappear, he’ll do it, without the faintest trace. Fenris thinks for a moment. “What if we draw him out?”

Cullen raises an eyebrow. “How?”

That, of course, being the crux of the matter. Fenris is proficient in combat tactics, but other types of strategy lay within Hawke’s acumen. And now Hawke is not here.

“Does Varric know about this?” Fenris asks.

Cullen heaves a sigh. “Well, I haven’t told him, but it’s been about half an hour, so I expect by now he knows more than I do.”

“Good. I’m going to talk to him.” Fenris brushes past, then halts. “Commander?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry we’ve caused you so much trouble.”

Cullen offers a tired smile. “I have to admit, it certainly hasn’t been boring since you’ve been back.”

——

Fenris leans out over the railing.

The wind is good, and he has his hair tied back so it doesn’t whip into his face. The ship must be making close to eight knots, and the hull slices through the swells, sending up plumes of spray below him. Fenris feels the mist on his fingertips.

Bootsteps to his right. “There you are. So, how are you this fine morning?”

“I’m going to kill him,” Fenris growls.

Varric nods sagely, resting a hand on the railing. “Thinking about Hawke again, I see.”

“There’s nothing he can say that will stop me.”

“Might want to practice a little first. Sharpen your skills. For a big guy, he’s pretty quick.”

 _“So it looks like there are two real problems standing in our way.” Varric put up one finger. “First, we need something he cares about enough so that it’ll actually drag him out of whatever hole he’s hiding in.” A second finger. “And next, we need the message to get to him. Now, we’re pretty sure he’s going to Tevinter, but beyond that, no ideas, right?” He eyed Fenris and Cullen, and, receiving no rebuttals, moved on. “So we have to get this message to_ all _of Tevinter.”_

Fenris squints out to sea, sunlight scattered off the chop. “Do you really think it’ll work?”

A long, patient sigh. “My answer to that question hasn’t changed since the first hundred times you asked me.”

Fenris grunts. Varric eschewed more conservative plans in favor of one both large-scale and not without risks. Many risks. But word  _will_  get out, and Hawke will take the bait.

_“You want to—frame Aveline?” Fenris sat forward, indignant on her behalf._

_Varric raised his hands. “Hey, she’ll survive it, okay? And so will her career. Because we’re_ actually _framing Lady Stallwick. Eventually.”_

_Cullen nodded in thought. “A thorn in our side for some time now. She’s actively opposing Inquisition aid to Kirkwall, and dragging her friends into it, too. Some nationalist agenda or something, I think.”_

“And _she once tried to have me killed,” Varric points out. “Can you believe it? Someone wanting me dead. My books aren’t_ that _bad.”_

“Anyway, it’ll be fun! How long has it been since you were last in Kirkwall?” Varric smacks Fenris’s elbow.

How long? Fenris tries to put it together. How long were he and Hawke hounded by their own infamy? Confined to the edges of civilization, daring only to stray into it long enough to gather supplies or information? “Years,” he mutters.

“This’ll be good. Just like old times.”

“Old times?” Fenris looks down. “Are—are the others there?” Not Anders, obviously. Anders is gone, one way or another. The blood mage he never really brought himself to like, but somehow now he suspects even hers would be a comforting face. Isabela he misses deeply. She never had the sense of propriety he was so eager to discard after Minrathous, and the two of them got along like he never would have expected himself to with a drinking, cheating, flirting pirate—

Varric shakes his head. “I—I mean, I don’t know for  _sure_ , but…I think it’ll just be the three of us.”

“Four,” Fenris corrects. “Once Hawke arrives, anyway.”

_“Smuggling ex-Venatori into the city.” Cullen presses his fingers to his temple. “That’s…quite the accusation.”_

_“Everyone knows they didn’t just vanish into thin air after Corypheus died,” Varric says. “They’re going about it more subtly now, but they’re still trying to expand the Imperium like it was a thousand years ago. Most of Tevinter would rather they not, since the whole damn country’s on its head—magisters trying to quash Corypheus’s supporters, slave revolts, Qunari taking advantage of the chaos…”_

_“So if it becomes known that the Venatori might be trying to start a war with the Free Marches, then that would be…an urgent problem.” Cullen frowns, clearly still not happy, but thinking on it._

_“Oh yeah. All of Tevinter would be bending over backwards to put a stop to it.” Varric puts his feet up on the low table. “Anyway, after Hawke shows up to help Aveline out, I’ll notify Leliana’s agents and they can dump a pile of fabricated evidence on Lady Stallwick’s head, revealing that the treacherous Lady Stallwick had fabricated evidence to lay the blame on the guard-captain.”_

_“When, in fact, it was we who had done that,” Fenris remarks._

_Varric grins at him. “Now you’re getting it.”_

_“All well and good, but how in the Void am I supposed to convince Leliana to do this?” Cullen asks._

_“Easy. Hawke tried to kill an Inquisition prisoner, right? This gives her a chance to catch him.”_

_“And_ will  _she catch him?”_

_Varric guffaws. “Come on, Commander. This is Hawke we’re talking about.”_

“I…am looking forward to seeing Aveline again.” Fenris curls his toes against the sun-warmed wood of the deck. “She was always honest with me, when I needed it the most.”

“I’ll be happy to see her too.” Varric stands on his tiptoes and leans over the railing, gazing down at the white wake splitting around the hull. “Just do me one favor, would you?”

“What’s that?”

“Stick around to nurse me back to health.” Varric steps back, heading toward the main deck again. “Because when she hears this plan, Aveline is going to punch my lights out.”

——

It’s been years.

Walking through the dusty Lowtown streets, the sun pooling on the ground, late afternoon heat suffocating him, Fenris has a vertiginous moment of dissociation in which he realizes that the Chantry explosion, his flight with Hawke, the rise of Corypheus and the Inquisition, all of it was a daydream, and instead he is on his way to the Hanged Man to drink with Varric (here beside him) and Isabela (meeting them there), as he’s done a thousand times before and will do a thousand more.

“Huh. Coming back here, I thought I’d feel, y’know…better,” Varric murmurs.

Of course it wasn’t a daydream. Fenris shakes himself. “What’s wrong?”

Varric’s quiet for a moment as they pass through a broad square, children playing some sort of game in one corner, a man selling trinkets in the other. “I—left.”

It takes Fenris a moment to understand. “You were helping elsewhere.”

Varric snorts. “Yeah, under duress.”

“Not for long, I hear.” Fenris smiles down at him.

Varric nods in concession. “I guess that’s true.”

Yet Fenris also feels less than he expected—not the warm rush of familiarity, nor the comforting sense of home. Instead it’s as if Kirkwall threw him out, all those years ago, and now he’s returned to beg forgiveness. They hit the market, the air filled with cries, offers, enticements, as loud as it’s ever been. It appears the reconstruction is progressing, despite everything. Varric pauses, nods to a woman selling flowers. “Might be a good idea.”

“If you feel the need, by all means.” Fenris crosses his arms. “It is  _your_  plan.”

“Yeah, for  _your_  lost sheep!” But Varric grins, and goes to buy the flowers himself. An enormous bouquet, one he arranges and rearranges a dozen times as they climb the broad stone steps.

Hightown hasn’t changed a bit. Fenris supposes the residents here had enough money to speed along the rebuilding efforts. Varric gestures. “This way.”

The Hawke estate is dark and shuttered, as is the mansion where Fenris used to make his home. The sun has set by now, and the streets are half-empty, although a few of the nobles still start and stare, perhaps recognizing him. Fenris offers each a courteous nod. He hopes they do recognize him. “Does she know we’re coming?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah. Sent a letter and told her we were planning to visit,” Varric answers. “Just...not why. Here we are.”

A dull red door, in a plain mid-sized structure wedged between two ornate manors like a child interrupting his parents’ dinner party. Varric knocks, then rearranges the flowers one more time, raising them a little as if to hide his face.

A girl opens the door.

She’s perhaps eight years old, Rivaini, with a bushel of curly hair. “Hello?”

“Uh—hi.” Varric peers at the house number again. “I think we have the wrong place. I coulda sworn—“

“Saravh? Who is it?”

Perhaps not the wrong house after all.

Aveline appears in the doorway, shuttling the girl behind her. “Fenris! Varric! You’re here!”

For a moment no one speaks or moves. Fenris has the sudden, wild urge to embrace her—bizarre, he’s not the embracing type, yet it seems the only way to express what he feels right now. To see one of his best friends again, after years of running, able to trust Hawke and no one else, and now he’s standing in Kirkwall, his once-home, with Aveline in front of him. An embrace does seem appropriate. Not that it matters, as he’s still standing frozen on her doorstep and can’t seem to move—

“Fenris.” She takes his hand and clasps it in both of her own. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

That’s enough. Fenris smiles. “As am I.”

“Aveline! Great to see you.” Varric proffers his bouquet. “Brought you some flowers.”

Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “What have you done this time?”

Fenris tips his head back and laughs.

Varric defers the question until after supper. Donnic’s cooking, and the house smells of spices that Fenris recognizes as Rivaini. None too cheap, and it’s nice to see Aveline’s indulging herself in at least one area, as it appears she hasn’t done so with the furnishings. The house is a somewhat sparse, with a dearth of decoration, but Fenris dredges up that line he’s heard Hawke use— “You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you, Fenris.” She smiles in genuine gratitude.

Donnic pokes his head out of the kitchen to greet them, and then the girl runs over to join him in preparing the food. Aveline gestures to the sitting room, which is nearly subsumed by the tyranny of the desk in the corner and the spread of papers that surrounds it. Her workspace, apparently. But there are enough armchairs and divans clear of paperwork to seat them all.

She tells them what she’s been up to recently, which is a stream of bureaucratic struggles mixed in with cracking down on criminals who took advantage of the upheaval that’s been in incremental decline since the Chantry exploded. Even her numerous disagreements with the financial minister, which she describes in very irritated detail, keep Fenris’s attention. After months of perpetrating bloody slaughter, it’s nice to sit back and hear that some things are as they have always been, and perhaps the world isn’t so irreparable after all.

At last Varric can no longer hold back his curiosity. “So…who’s that girl who answered the door?”

“Oh!” Aveline blinks, surprised. “That’s Saravh. She and her parents came here from Rivain to visit family, but they were pegged as foreigners and attacked. She hid, but her parents were both killed. Really awful. Donnic and I decided to take her in until we could find her a permanent home. We’re…still looking.”

“Hm.” Varric nods. “How long’s she been with you two?”

“Er—over a year, I think. Maker, has it been that long already?”

Fenris exchanges a look with Varric.

Perhaps it’s simply the company, but supper is better than anything from Skyhold’s kitchens. Varric regales them with tales of his time in the Inquisition, full of laughter and peril alike. Fenris is grateful for the dwarf’s bottomless well of stories. His own journeys have not been so entertaining, and their recounting would no doubt cast a pall over the evening. Saravh’s eyes are alight, and she hangs on to Varric’s every word.

But after dinner Aveline pins them down at last and asks why they’ve come all the way back to Kirkwall, and why Hawke isn’t with them.

Fenris explains.

He shows her the letter, though it’s hardly necessary, as he could easily recite it by heart. Tells her, as best he can, how Hawke’s changed, about the parts of him that have splintered off and drifted away into the dark, the rising tide of anger that’s replaced them, carrying with it a million fine particles of guilt that build up like silt on the decaying frame and broken timbers that are all that’s left of the Hawke they knew. How Fenris has tried to wade in and fix it, only for the swells to push him away.

A bit unfair, he reflects, to set her up with that and  _then_  have Varric deliver the plan.

Aveline groans. “Varric, there  _must_  be another way. You know how much this job means to me.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but it’s all I’ve got. You’re the only one of us who’s got a high enough profile so Hawke’ll hear about it.” Varric sits forward, earnest. “And anyway, no one’s gonna believe for a  _second_  that these accusations are anything but complete bullshit. Your reputation is untouchable. They’ll have to investigate, of course, but once the truth comes out—well, the fake truth—they’ll forget you were ever involved.”

Aveline presses her hands to her eyes and doesn’t reply.

“If you don’t want to…I understand,” Fenris tells her. “It’s all right. We’ll find another way to get him back.”

She watches at him for a moment. “You’re  _sure_  you can talk him down? That this won’t all be for nothing?”

“I’m sure,” Fenris says airily. “And if I can’t, it’s not my words he’ll have to contend with.”

At last she heaves a sigh. “Fine. But if he does try to leave again, make sure I’m there. I’ll help you beat some sense into him.”

——

The plot begins.

Varric takes up his old residence at the Hanged Man.  _Got a lot to catch up on,_ he says. Fenris stays in the extra bedroom upstairs, at Aveline’s house. He has displaced Saravh, but she professes that she doesn’t mind the divan one bit.

Varric and Leliana work fast. The rumors start up before the end of the week, and some alarming scraps of evidence come to light. Aveline is not dragged away in chains, but she is placed under house arrest. Donnic has to pick up a few extra shifts. Fenris does the shopping, with Saravh’s help.

Saravh is quiet at first. Fenris understands. Uprooted from her country of origin, dropped, alone, in the middle of a teeming city, then taken in without question by strangers whose kindness she could not have expected. It was all a bit much. Is, for her.

But she warms up much quicker than he did, at least.

When Aveline’s catching up on paperwork or trying to improve her cooking, Fenris spends time with Saravh. She’s a bright girl, and reads better than he does. Soon the shyness fades and she’s the one asking him questions. Things get a bit awkward when she asks about his younger days, and he has to change the subject more than once. But she’s thrilled to learn he’s a fighter, and she begs him to pass on his knowledge, to fill in the gaps in what Aveline’s been teaching her. Fenris shrugs and agrees, proposing they start with some of the grappling he’s learned from Hawke. It’s all going rather well until Aveline rushes in in response to Fenris’s startled yelp and finds him with his arm locked out, Saravh wrapped around it, grinning fiercely. After that she tells Fenris to try a less hands-on method of teaching, as she doesn’t want her charge to break any bones, either her own or someone else’s.

Fenris, penitent, apologizes. The next day they take a detour from shopping to go to the park and practice there. Upon returning, his attempts to hide his split lip from Aveline are unsuccessful, yet she seems to realize something halfway through berating him and leaves off, asking Saravh instead if she’d like to read for a bit.

The days wander forward. Fenris always returns to the house before sunset. When Hawke comes he will likely use the cover of darkness. The rumors of Aveline’s connection to the Venatori are left to steep, the investigation dragging on. None of the guards seem particularly invested in digging up dirt on their captain. Fenris does start to feel restless, waiting here for Hawke’s return. He itches to fight, itches to  _act._  And yet this life, free of combat (except with Saravh), his days filled with reading books and taking walks through the sunny city, is not so bad. Not so bad to climb into bed every night and know he’s safe, surrounded by friends. He thinks about it as Saravh drags him across the square by the hand to a produce stand, her quick fingers plucking some Rift-green tropical fruit from its basket. He never expected to be this…content.

Each night as he falls asleep, he finds himself hoping Hawke will arrive soon. So Fenris can save him from his self-imposed exile, of course. But Fenris also wants to tell him about all this.  _We can be happy, Hawke. It doesn’t have to be like it was. We can go back to being safe. We don’t have to run. We don’t have to be afraid all of the time._

He is restless, yes, and misses the weight of his greatsword, leaned up now in the corner of the bedroom, untouched for weeks. But he has a choice now. He and Hawke both.

He expresses his thoughts to Aveline one evening, after a second glass of wine. She hides her smile, and asks him if he and Hawke ever thought of children.

Fenris shakes his head, gazing into the empty glass. “I think…we both have some things about us we’d rather not pass on.”

Aveline nods. “Well, you’re both welcome to come spend time with Saravh, if you’ve a mind to.”

Fenris lifts an eyebrow. “I thought you were still looking for a permanent home for her.”

Aveline sits up straight. “Er—yes! Of course. Just, you know, in case we haven’t found one.”

He decides not to press the issue. She’ll realize soon enough. Fenris wishes Hawke were here to see this.

Wishes Hawke were here.

——

There’s a knocking at his door.

Fenris rouses, inhaling slowly, and rubs his eyes. “Hm?”

A quiet creaking, and Donnic’s whispered voice. “He came in through our bedroom window. Aveline’s trying to stall him, but she’s an awful liar, so you might want to hurry.”

Fenris is on his feet.

Halfway down the hall he realizes that on his way out he grabbed not a shirt, but instead his greatsword, still in its sheath. Not the best decision he’s made. At least he sleeps with trousers on. The door to the master bedroom is slightly cracked, and Fenris shoves it open. “HAWKE!”

Standing there in the moonlight, Aveline, bless her, blocking the window so he can’t bolt like a frightened cat. Hawke starts at the noise. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. 

Fenris points with the greatsword. “We are having a talk.”

“I knew there was something off about this whole situation.” Hawke raises his hands slowly. “All right, I’ll talk, just—please put down the sword, there’s a lot of innocent furniture in here—“

Fenris throws the sword down at Hawke’s feet, then strides forward, grabs the front of his armor, and kisses him.

Hawke makes a noise of surprise into his mouth, and Fenris nearly catches himself laughing but quashes the urge vehemently. Hawke does not deserve his laughter. Then he steps back, fully prepared to deliver a nice strong jab to the jaw—

Half of Hawke’s face is shredded, covered in thick scabs. Fenris freezes, the urge to strike out draining away.

“Is that him?”

“Oh, no, sweetheart—“

Fenris turns. Saravh is peeking around the threshold, Aveline going to her. Donnic appears a second later. “I’m sorry, she got away from me.”

Perhaps using one of those dodges Fenris taught her last week. Good for her. “Who’s this?” Hawke asks.

She’s already being herded away by Donnic, so Fenris answers. “Her name is Saravh. Aveline and Donnic have adopted her as their own, although they have yet to admit it to themselves.”

Aveline gasps. “What? That is not true!”

“I’ve admitted it!” Donnic calls from down the hall.

Aveline groans in frustration. “Listen, I’m going to leave you two here to talk and go have a discussion with my husband. Don’t break the furniture unless you have to stop him running away again.” She points at Hawke, then walks out, shutting the door behind her.

Fenris discovers Hawke is holding his hand. When did that happen? It doesn’t matter. “You  _left_  me!”

“I know! I just—I couldn’t bear to be like that anymore, sleeping next to you as if I were someone you could trust—“

“I  _can_  trust you!” Fenris is shouting now despite the fact that they’re right beside each other. “The problem is that you do not trust yourself!”

“Fenris, please—“ Hawke is desperate, eyes shining in the light of Fenris’s markings. “You don’t know what it’s like! How I can just—detach myself from you, from anything, and act without the slightest hint of guilt—“

“Hawke, you carry more guilt with you than anyone I’ve ever known!” Fenris catches his gaze, catches it and holds it, needs him to hear this. “I’ve been with you every day for years. I’ve watched you change, I  _know_  you. This fear you wrote about in your letter, this fear of hurting me, it  _isn’t yours._  Do you remember what you told me, after we escaped the sea cave? What they’d done to you?”

There’s a second of silence before Hawke answers. “They…tried to make me think that I hurt you.”

 _“Yes.”_  Fenris finds they haven’t let go of each other, as if neither could bear to take their hand away. He squeezes Hawke’s fingers. “The same reason I still flinch sometimes when I look at you, because they’d tried to make me think you hurt me. But you haven’t. I know that. I know the Qunari created that fear in me. Just like they created this fear in you. You  _must_  believe me, Hawke,  _please._  Trust me.”

Hawke gazes at him for a moment, still holding a sadness in him so great Fenris can hardly bear to see it, the same sadness he’s been hiding away for months. “But what about the anger? I—tried to kill someone. Someone defenseless.”

Yes. The anger.

Fenris guides Hawke over and sits on the edge of the bed. “You can start by talking to me about it. Every time I’ve asked you’ve brushed me off. Not anymore. I can help you. I have had that kind of anger, the kind that grows and grows until you think it can’t grow any more or it’ll shatter you to pieces. And it does, and keeps growing.”

Hawke doesn’t say anything, their fingers still tangled together on his thigh.

“I can help you. I  _can_  help you, Hawke, but you must  _let me_. No more ‘I’m fine’ or ‘just in a bit of a mood.’ “ Or one of a thousand other excuses, each another brick to wall Fenris out. “We’re together, Hawke. You have to let me take care of you.” Then he can’t bear it any longer, and tilts Hawke’s face toward him, tracing the thick scabs. “What happened?”

“Slavers. A couple of weeks ago.” Hawke won’t meet Fenris’s eye. “Had Tal-Vashoth with them. Bit off more than I could chew, I suppose.”

“Did you sustain any other injuries?”

Hawke freezes a second, then nods.

Damn it all. “Show me.” No answer.  _“Hawke.”_

Hawke rises slowly, shucks his armor, strips off his shirt, and stands there, the moonlight washing over him muted and pale, as if afraid to damage him any further.

He’s a mess, and Fenris knew it would be like this as soon as Hawke hesitated to answer, but it still tears the heart right out of him. Scrapes, cuts, stitches in blood-darkened thread. Bruises in shades varying from new deep purple to a near-healed shade of sickly yellow-brown. Hawke’s been biting off more than he could chew for a while. “Please don’t.” Fenris reaches out, traces a cut with the lightest of touches, yet Hawke still flinches under him. “You don’t have to do this to yourself. Please.”

Hawke grabs him and pulls him in tight.

Fenris wraps both arms around Hawke’s back, feels Hawke’s skin on his own, the roughness of scabs and stitches against him. Hears the shuddering whisper in his ear. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

“Don’t leave me again.” Fenris finds his eyes burning, as his own skin is now, his tattoos starting to glow. The blaze of anger has set into a steel-hard determination, cool and strong.  _“Don’t leave me.”_

“I won’t.” Hawke kisses his hair. “Never again.”

——

They sit at the kitchen table, their hands linked. Fenris has put on a shirt. Donnic and Saravh have been sent upstairs to bed, and Aveline is making tea.

“What will you do now?” she asks, setting down the pot and a trio of cups.

“Make my escape, I suppose.” Hawke heaves a sigh. “It won’t be easy. This place is  _crawling_  with Leliana’s people. It was dumb luck—”

“No,” Fenris interjects. “We’re not running anymore.”

Hawke half-smiles. “You may have forgiven me—“

“I haven’t.”

He winces. “Fair enough. The fact remains, I tried to assassinate an Inquisition prisoner. I’m a wanted man.”

“So turn yourself in.” Fenris shrugs. “You were less than a month out of the sea cave, tell them it was the re-education. That it instilled you with an insatiable drive for vengeance, or something. And that you just needed some time to work past it.”

“Look at you, spinning up stories with the best of us.” Hawke pours the tea. “D’you think it’ll be enough? The Inquisitor herself will be judging me.”

“Publicly, before a crowd of people amongst whom you are almost universally loved. Thanks to Varric.” Fenris takes his cup. “She won’t condemn you. You’re more popular than she is already.”

“Is Varric here? I assume he put this whole scheme together.”

“Yes. He’s in the usual spot.”

“The Hanged Man. Maker.” Hawke leans back, grinning. “I haven’t been there in ages.”

“Don’t worry,” Aveline says, taking a sip of tea. “It’s exactly the same. Although I think the ale may have gotten worse.”

A laugh. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

“So.” She leans forward. “What  _will_  you do now? After clearing your name, anyway.”

Hawke thinks for a minute. “Have you…heard from the others?”

“Actually, yes.” She sets her cup down. “Isabela’s got her own ship. She put in to harbor a couple of months ago and visited for a bit, then sailed off again, shame you missed her. Merrill’s traveling now, in the south of Ferelden, I think. She still sends me letters.”

Hawke nods. “The south of Ferelden, then. And back up here, too, if you don’t mind us dropping in again.”

“You’re welcome anytime.” Aveline smiles. “Fenris and Saravh have been getting along famously, she’ll be glad to see him.”

Of course she had to tell him that. Fenris reddens, gazing with determination at the tabletop. Hawke squeezes his hand. “And here I thought you were terrible with children.”

“I am!”

“Completely false,” Aveline puts in. “They’re inseparable.”

It’s obvious he’s not going to win this one. Hawke leans over and kisses him. “I love you more than anything in the world.”

“I love you too,” he mutters.

——

The sea is calmer today, the wake splitting low around the bow, the roll of the deck easy and slow. Fenris has tied his hair back again. He squints into the distance. Land up ahead, still far off. The north coast of Ferelden.

“I like your hair long.” Hawke wraps both arms around his waist. “It’s quite fetching, you know.”

“Oh. I—hadn’t thought about it.” Fenris tucks a lingering strand behind his ear.

The soldiers tried to keep Hawke locked up for the first day, but he kept popping the manacles with splinters of wood and sneaking up onto the deck (“it’s just so dark and gloomy down there,” he’d protest when they caught him). So now they let him wander, figuring if he were going to steal a lifeboat and escape, he would do it, brig or not. “So.” He kisses Fenris’s neck. “What do  _you_  want to do?”

Fenris answers without hesitation. “Find a home.”

Hawke is quiet for a moment. “A home?”

“Yes. Not—not a place to settle down, exactly,” Fenris says. “But somewhere we can go back to. Somewhere we have—people who know us. Friends.”

Warm breath on his shoulder as Hawke sighs. “That sounds…really, really good.”

Fenris has been thinking about it nonstop since Kirkwall, and to hear Hawke’s agreement is a pure rush of joy. He turns around, kisses Hawke on the mouth, kisses him again, and wishes (not for the first time) that there were the barest ounce of privacy on this damned boat. As it is, he must content himself with this.

“I’m going to be better,” Hawke tells him, holding him close. “I promise.”

Fenris strokes his cheek, the mess of scabs. “I know you will.”

No more running. No more aloneness. And safety, at last, a place where they can go to be protected, to be among friends. Hawke has changed. Yes. But they both have, and they’re still here, together. Fenris faces the railing again and leans into Hawke’s chest. He’d missed this, badly, Hawke’s warm bulk at his back, and—

“I love you.”

—the murmur in his ear.

Some things haven’t changed. Haven’t changed at all.


End file.
